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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
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The  Valley  and  Villa 

of  Horace  .  !    ^i 


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The  Valley  and  Villa 
of  Horace 

By 

Payson  Sibley  Wild 


'  1 1 1 


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','.  ;.'   "  •,; ' 


Chicago  Literary  Club 
1915 


COPYRIGHT,  I915 
CHICAGO  LITERARY  CLUB 


c'    I    'ie   »        •       •,  •  tc  •    c  «  »    •  < 


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MEMORIAE 

I.  G.  C. 

DOCTI  ET  AMABILIS 
QUI  UNA  CUM  G.  L.  H.  ET  P.  S.  W. 

ITER  HORATIANUM  FECIT 

LIBELLUM  SACRUM  ESSE  VOLUIT 

AUCTOR 


N 


t 


18'65.'J4 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Villa    Horatiana   as   it   Appears  To- 
day   Frontispiece 

Facing  Page 

Licenza  from  the  Northern  End  of  the 

Ruins •       -18 

Looking  North  Across  the  "  Hortus  " 

with  its  "Piscina" 26 

Outline  of  the  "  Piscina"       .        .        .        .28 

Baths  (of  later  date)  at  the  West        .       .  32 

Upper  Reaches  of  the  Licenza  Valley        .  36 

Rocca  Giovane 40 


The  author  desires  to  aclcnowledge  most  gratefully  the  kind- 
ness and  rare  courtesy  of  his  friend,  Professor  O.  F.  Long 
(quern  Di  ament!),  whose  photographs  of  the  Licenza  Valley 
and  the  ruins  of  the  villa,  taken  about  the  time  of  the  authors 
visit,  adorn  these  pages. 


THE  VALLEY  AND  VILLA 
OF  HORACE 

HIS  paper  has  no  designs 
upon  your  critical  faculties. 
Nor  does  it  aim  to  make  any 
contribution  to  Horatian 
hermeneutics,  for  the  pagan 
lyrist  (pagan  because  human 
and  natural)  has  long  been 
the  cloyed  recipient  of  inter- 


pretations without  number.  For  the  time 
being  we  are  merely  Epicurean  pilgrims, 
followers  of  him  who  succeeded  no  one  and 
had  no  successor  in  Roman  lyric  verse; 
admirers  of  the  poet  whom  multitudes  have 
held  to  be  a  vest-pocket  edition  of  univer- 
sality, the  quintessential  expression  of  trite 
and  homely  yet  solemn  and  inevitable  truth 
contained  in  a  perfection  of  form  that  is 
still  unrivalled. 

The  cosmic  scene-shifters,  who   arc   so 
noisily    and    fiendishly  busy    at   this   time 


II 


dragging  from  the  universal  stage  before  our 
very  eyes  the  settings  of  an  old  era  and 
lugging  in  the  furniture  of  a  new,  cannot 
permanently  divert  our  attention  from  the 
great  and  the  wise  who  played  their  part  in 
earlier  scenes.  We  should  stifle,  if  we  could 
not  from  time  to  time  return  to  our  ancient 
heritage.  More  than  ever  is  the  wisdom  of 
the  ages  necessary;  more  than  ever  must 
we  lean  on  the  prophets  of  old  for  such 
comfort  as  is  at  all  obtainable,  for  our  proph- 
ets to-day,  from  Haeckel  and  Bergson  to 
Pastor  Russell  and  Billy  Sunday,  are  thrash- 
ing vainly  on  padded  couches,  while  the 
foam  of  madness  drools  from  their  purple 
lips.  Who  to-day  could  say  to  us  with  such 
elusive  grace  and  beauty,  and  yet  so  simply: 


"With  purpose  wise,  in  shadowy  night  the  god 
Hath  hid  the  future's  outcome  from  us  all, 
And  laughs  at  our  undue  anxiety. 
With  tranquil  heart  each  daily  problem  meet  1 
All  else,  like  some  great  river's  mighty  flow, 
Is  borne  along,  now  gliding  peacefully 
Within  its  confines  to  th' Etruscan  Sea, 
Now  rolling  rocks  and  stones  and  broken  trees, 
And  cattle,  aye,  and  houses  too,  together, 
With  echoing  of  the  hills  and  neighboring  wolds, 
While  lashed  to  fury  are  the  peaceful  streams 
By  this  fierce  deluge. "^ 


»Od.III,29,  29. 

"Prudens  futuri  temporis  exitum 
Caliginosa  nocte  premit  deus, 
Ridetque  si  mortalis  ultra 
Fas  trepidat." 

12 


It  seems  not  unreasonable  to  believe  that  if 
he  whose  wide  range  of  mental  vision,  broad 
interests,  courage,  ardor,  and  sanity,  have 
made  his  work  a  beacon  in  literature  and 
an  interpretation  of  life  for  high  and  low 
were  alive  to-day,  we  might  safely  expect  to 
hear  his  voice  lifted  in  some  large  way,  sane- 
ly and  effectively.  He  who,  with  a  mental 
poise  that  is  our  envy  and  despair,  saw  one 
civilization  give  birth  to  a  new  order  of 
things,  could  probably  view  with  equal  detach- 
ment  the  parturition,  going  on  to-day,  with- 
out "twilight  sleep,"  of  a  lusty  litter  of 
events,  whose  destiny  is  still  a  weighty  sub- 
ject of  discussion  in  the  council  chambers 
of  Olympus. 

But  Horace  we  have  not  with  us  in  the 
flesh  in  these  trying  times  of  "blood  and 
iron,"  of  quasi  demigods  in  "shining  ar- 
mor." Let  us  then  visit  him,  forgetting  for 
a  little  the  shouting  of  the  scene-shifters, 
who  have  so  rudely  broken  the  continuity  of 
our  illusions;  forgetting  that  the  world  is 
an  armed  camp,  and  that  Libitina  is  holding 
an  international  inquest;  forgetting  that  the 
seismic  god  has  visited  with  destruction  the 
beautiful  valley  whither  we  are  to  go  —  for- 
getting these  things,  let  us  catch  the  early 
Tivoli  train  on  a  perfect  Roman  morning  in 
April.  We  shall  see  what  has  been  seen 
before  by  thousands  of  devoted  pilgrims; 
we  shall  do  the  things  that  many  others  have 

13 


done,  and  our  observations  will  doubtless 
savor  of  the  triteness  that  has  turned  many 
a  travel  sketch  into  a  vapid  conflux  of  triv- 
ialities. But  for  all  that  it  is  good  to  "re- 
visit Yarrow."  Unless  his  imagination  has 
lost  its  vibrant  quality,  there  is  a  thrill  for 
even  the  most  hardened  globe-trotter  in  each 
successive  pilgrimage  to  the  haunts  of  the 
great  dead,  whether  it  be  Concord,  Box  Hill, 
Weimar,  the  Forum,  or  the  Valley  of  the 
Licenza  in  the  Sabine  Hills. 

I  believe  we  are  to  infer  from  certain  pas- 
sages in  his  writings  that  Horace  used  to 
make  the  journey  between  his  farm  and 
Rome  on  mule  back.  Our  progress  toward 
the  Sabine  country,  as  the  train  leaves  the  en- 
virons of  Rome  and  dallies  among  the  pop- 
pies that  line  the  track — the  engine  driver 
evidently  has  imbibed  something  of  their 
soporific  influence — is  apparently  no  more 
rapid  than  the  poet's,  the  only  difference 
being,  so  far  as  I  can  observe,  that  we  are 
not  astride  of  anything.  But  our  rate  of 
speed  matters  little,  for  the  Campagna  lies 
before  us  with  all  its  charm.  Off  to  the 
right  are  the  golf  links  of  ancient  memory, 
where  one  may  view  in  a  glass  case  the  well 
preserved  bronze  head  of  Maecenas'  driving 
iron,  which  tradition  says  was  found  by  the 
osseous  remains  of  what  Cuvier  declared 
to  be  skeletal  fragments  of  an  Ethiopian 
youth.    Conjectural  explanations  have  been 

14 


numerous,  but  we  shall  not  stop  to  discuss 
them.  Those  who  play  golf  will  be  the  best 
guessers.  In  passing  I  might  say  that  the 
average  visitor  to  these  links  should  fortify 
himself,  if  possible,  with  some  sort  of  formal 
document  of  introduction,  for  the  club  mem- 
bership to-day  is  largely  British,  and  one 
should  therefore  not  swing  breezily  into  the 
club's  front  door,  and  announce  himself  as 
a  member  of  the  Peewee  Valley,  the  Pisca- 
tauqua,  the  Scrub  Oak,  the  Shoshone  Falls, 
or  what  not.  Country  Club,  thereby  think- 
ing to  secure  for  himself  a  cordial  entree 
and  an  invitation  to  luncheon.  Such  an  aspir- 
ant to  the  club's  privileges  will  shortly  find 
himself  explaining  his  connection  with  his 
renowned  home  club  to  the  all-enveloping 
ether,  and  much  rarefied  at  that.  I  was  de- 
terred myself  from  seeking  an  official  pass- 
port by  the  fear  that  the  influential  friend 
to  whom  I  had  thought  to  apply  might  feel 
impelled  to  write  in  my  behalf  to  the  club 
authorities  what  Horace  wrote  in  a  letter  in- 
troducing Scptimius  to  the  future  Tiberius  : 

■'Plea  upon  plea,  believe  me,  I  have  used 
In  hope  he'd  hold  me  from  the  task  excused; 
Yet  feared  the  while  it  might  be  thought  I  feigned 
Too  low  what  influence  I  perchance  have  gained; 
Dissembling  it  as  nothing  with  my  friends, 
To  keep  it  for  my  own  peculiar  ends. 
So,  to  escape  such  dread  reproach,  I  put 
My  blushes  by,  and  boldly  urge  my  suit."  ^ 

'Epp.  1,9.  Martin's  tr. 
15 


But  we  are  still  crawling  eastward,  and 
it  is  getting  much  warmer.  The  aqueducts, 
bridging  the  long  and  shallow  gulf  between 
the  Seven  Hills  and  the  Delectable  Moun- 
tains; suggestive  heaps  of  ruins  that  dot  the 
landscape  in  every  direction;  the  Sabine 
promontories  ahead  and  the  Alban  Hills  to 
the  south, — all  these  beautiful  things,  sleep- 
ing beneath  the  dreamy  sunshine  of  an  Ital- 
ian Spring,  feed  our  contemplative  faculties 
and  nourish  our  high  meditations.  We  are 
in  a  mood  quite  Augustan  as  the  train 
comes  to  an  actual  stop  at  Acque  Albule, 
where  suddenly  the  sweet  odor  of  dew  is 
supplanted  by  the  stifling  smell  of  sulphu- 
retted hydrogen,  and  for  a  moment  we  fancy: 
"When  we  have  descended  whither  our  Father 
Aeneas,  rich  Tiillus,  and  Ancus  have  preceded 
us,  we  are  hut  dust  and  shadow.  "^  But  we  are 
soon  reassured,  for  the  sign  on  the  station 
is  neither  Avernus  nor  Cocytus ;  no  Styg- 
ian gondolier  in  filthy  array  appears  to  be 
doing  business  on  the  nauseous  waters  of 
the  sulphur  pools,  and  the  train  rambles  on 
again. 

To  the  northeast  of  us  we  see  and  iden- 
tify Monte  Gennaro,  one  of  the  high  spots 
of  the  Sabines,  four  or  five  miles  due  east 
of  which  lies  the  chief  object  of  our  pil- 
grimage. Monte  Gennaro  is  a  prominent  but 

lOd.  IV,7,i4- 
i6 


friendly  summit,  whose  faint  outlines  used 
daily  to  greet  us  from  our  balcony  in  Rome 
near  the  site  of  the  ancient  Gardens  of 
Sallust. 

And  now  we  are  climbing  into  Tivoli,  still 
a  glorious  spot,  though  its  dust  has  been 
carried  away  on  the  feet  of  thousands  who 
knew  nothing  of  its  sacred  character  and 
rich  associations.  By  lay  and  cleric,  from 
Horace  to  the  authors  of  Newdigate  prize 
poems,  have  its  delights  been  rhymed  and 
prosed.  Lo,  are  they  not  contained  in  all 
the  books  of  the  chronicles  of  enraptured 
dabsters  of  every  nation  and  every  clime ! 
But  not  for  us  to-day  are  ' '  the  echoing  grotto 
of  Albtinca,  the  Anio  tumbling  in  cascades, 
Tibiirmis'  sacred  grove,  and  the  orchards  wet  with 
trickling  rills,  "^  though  half  a  hundred  up- 
roarious Jehus  would  be  only  too  glad  to 
show  them  to  us  at  certain  fixed  (or  un- 
fixed) rates — in  addition  to  other  good  and 
valuable  considerations,  which  are  not  the 
least  important  part  of  every  vehicular  con- 
tract in  the  Italy  of  to-day.  To  the  tender 
mercies  of  these  charioteers  we  consign  the 
majority  of  our  fellow  passengers,  who,  like 
so  many  of  their  kind,  hear  only  the  mega- 
phone call  of  the  show  places ;  whose  ears  arc 
not  attuned  to  that  thinner  yet  sweeter  note 
floating  ex  valle  vatis  vegetante  memoriam.^ 

•Od.  1,7,12. 

2  From  the  memory-stirring  valley  of  the  bard. 

17 


With  an  empty  train  and  a  more  pro- 
nounced sense  of  belonging  to  the  elect  we 
now  find  ourselves  being  borne  into  the  Sa- 
bine territory.  In  a  short  half-hour  we  are  at 
Vicovaro,  as  it  is  called  to-day,  the  Varia 
of  Horace's  time,  a  market  town,  where  the 
poet  and  his  tenants  probably  disposed  of 
their  produce  and  obtained  farm  and  house- 
hold supplies.  But  we  do  not  dismount  here; 
our  destination  lies  a  parasang  farther  on — 
the  monohippic  "Stazione"  of  Mandela. 

Before  we  set  foot,  however,  on  sacred 
soil,  shall  we  not  invoke  a  muse?  Not  our 
poet's  this  time,  but  the  muse  of  one  of 
those  numerous  umbratical  English  poet- 
asters of  the  Early  Nineteenth  Century 
Renaissance,  as  it  were  —  that  period  in  the 
dusty  arcana  of  which  repose  so  many 
blighted  literary  aspirations.  With  a  will 
to  appreciate  greater  than  his  power  of 
execution,  this  classical  enthusiast  of  a  cen- 
tury ago  implored  Calliope's  aid  in  the 
composition  of  a  mildly  denatured  epic, 
that  seems  to  sing  itself  best  on  the  melo- 
deon  or  the  harpsichord.  Only  in  biblio- 
graphical research  or  in  the  preparation  of 
club  papers  do  these  curiosities  come  to 
light,  for  which  perchance  we  should  be 
duly  grateful.  Sprinkled  with  the  inevitable 
"  haec  fabula  docei"s  that  characterize  the 
product  of  this  minor  renaissance,  banal 
and  commonplace  though  it  is  for  the  most 

i8 


U2 


a 


O 
2 


o 


A 

a 
o 


part  throughout,  this  too  lengthy  Song  of  the 
Sabine  Farm  has  yet  its  "purple  patch"  on 
its  fustian  pants,  and  arouses  our  enthusi- 
asm by  its  author's  devotion  to  the  spirit  of 
Horace,  and  his  great  interest  in  the  latter's 
Sabine  estate.  Horace  is  literally  and  ex- 
haustively the  author's  guide.  The  poet 
speaks  in  every  paragraph.  Now  that  we 
are  at  our  valley's  gateway,  let  us  summon 
Horace  to  our  side  in  the  words  of  our  En- 
glish coreligionist,  as  we  find  them  in  his 
opening  lines :  ^ 

"In  Tibur's  scenes  who  would  not  linger  long 
That  feels  the  love  of  Nature,  or  of  Song? 
But  Horace  calls  us  hence,  upbraids  delay, 
And  comes,  himself,  companion  of  our  way. 
'Tis  not  the  dream  of  Fancy  —  for  I  hear 
His  own  words  vibrate  on  my  charmed  ear, 
While  pleasure,  mixt  with  awe,  my  bosom  fills. 

'Yours,  O  ye  Nine,  I  mount  the  Sabine  Hills! 
Whether  the  cool  Praeneste  charmed  before, 
Tibur  supine,  or  Baiae's  liquid  shore  !'* 
'O  when  shall  I  behold  thee,  rural  seat! 
When,  in  the  calm  of  undisturbed  retreat, 
With  books,  and  idle  hours,  and  soothing  sleep, 
The  cares  of  life  in  sweet  oblivion  steep !'^ 

Thus,  still  embodied  in  the  tuneful  page, 
That  once  enraptured  an  Augustan  Age 
(And  shall,  as  long  as  Taste  and  Virtue  last, 
Charm  future  ages,  as  it  charmed  the  past), 
The  Poet  speaks  —  'tis  Hel  He  meets  my  view, 

^Robert  Bradstreet  (l8l0).     ^Od.  HI,4,2i. 
'Sat.  H, 6, 60. 

19 


In  the  same  form  his  sportive  pencil  drew: 
'Of  stature  small,  with  locks  of  early  gray.'i 

While  wit  and  sense  in  his  mild  features  play. 
To  whom  I  thus:  Bard,  whom  all  tastes  admire! 
Great  Judge,  great  Master  of  the  Latian  Lyre, 
Thou  wilt  not,  with  fastidious  pride,  refuse 
To  hold  sweet  converse  with  a  pilgrim  muse, 
Who  seeks  the  spot  where  thou  wast  wont  to  stray, 
Seat  of  thy  life,  and  subject  of  thy  lay, — 

But  still  be  present  at  thy  votary's  side. 
Her  kind  companion,  and  her  faithful  guide, 
Pointing  each  object,  as  she  moves  along. 
That  claims  a  line  of  thy  immortal  song!" 

There  is  the  usual  knot  of  unoccupied 
humanity  on  the  station  platform,  a  class 
that  has  made  a  distinct  name  for  itself 
wherever  railroads  have  penetrated  the  world 
over.  We  observe  the  women  especially, 
having  perhaps  subliminally  in  mind  that 
misty  time  when  celibate  warrior  bands  from 
the  Rome  of  Romulus  deemed  it  expedient 
for  the  good  of  the  race  to  convert  this  fair 
Sabine  country  into  a  forcible  Gretna  Green. 
But  as  we  make  our  way  through  the  idlers, 
we  opine  that  a  recurrence  of  a  similar  deflo- 
rating  expedition  would  not  be  probable  for 
lack  of  sufficient  incentive. 

We  turn  the  corner  of  the  station  and  an 
involuntary  exclamation  escapes  us : 

"Eheu,  vos  umbrae  Horati  et  niuli  curii/"^ 

'Epp.  1,20,24. 

^Ah  !    Shades  of  Horace  and  his  docked  mule! 

20 


For  there  stands  a  fully  equipped,  modern 
gasoline  omnibus  marked  "  Licenza, "  all 
ready  to  take  us  thither.  Paene  concidimusf^ 
We  decide  to  take  it,  for  by  so  doing  we  shall 
have  more  time  later  for  the  day's  inves- 
tigations and  contemplations.  It  is  there; 
we  cannot  remove  it;  we  will  not  let  it  shat- 
ter our  dreams.  Nevertheless,  we  had  as 
soon  expected  to  find  a  boiler  factory  on 
Mount  Lucretilis  as  this  modern  abortion 
plying  the  lonely  Via  Digentiana.  We  are 
the  only  Horatians  on  board.  A  few  natives 
occupy  seats  here  and  there.  One  voluble 
Sabine  sits  directly  opposite  us,  and,  easily 
divining  whence  we  are  and  whither  bound, 
engages  us  in  affable  converse.  "Yes,  "he 
too  has  lived  in  America,  and  displays,  that 
he  may  stir  us  to  grievous  envy,  a  huge 
brass  timepiece  that  cost  him  ''due  dollar" 
in  some  dubious,  American  three-ball  mu- 
seum. "Yes,"  he  helped  to  construct  the 
Croton  (not  the  Claudian)  aqueduct  for  three 
dollars  a  day,  and  now  resides  in  affluence 
and  retirement  on  his  Sabine  farm.  Perhaps 
he  knows  "Orazio"  better  than  we. 

There  is  little  to  see  from  the  'bus  win- 
dows as  the  conveyance  thunders  speedily 
up  the  valley.  We  get  it  all  later  afoot. 
The  real  peace  of  the  place  docs  not  come 
home  to  us  on  account   of   the  chugging 


>We  almost  collapsed! 
21 


motor  and  grinding  wheels.  On  the  right 
we  ghmpse  an  inconspicuous,  fairly  clear  dj 
stream  of  moderate  size  making  its  way  to 
the  Anio,  and  we  know  it  is  the  Licenza, 
the  ^ '  gelidus  Digentia  rivus ' '  of  the  Epistle 
to  Lollius.i  Rocca  Giovane  and  the  former 
acres  of  Horace  are  somewhere  on  our  left. 
Across  the  stream  are  the  hills  in  sparse 
pea-green  which  form  the  eastern  boundary 
of  the  valley.  It  is  plain  that  we  must  wait 
until  we  reach  the  end  of  the  route  before 
we  can  get  our  bearings  and  determine  the 
landmarks.  As  the  valley  is  only  four  miles 
long,  we  have  but  a  few  moments  to  wait, 
and  so  curb  our  impatience.  On  a  steep, 
rocky  promontory,  jutting  from  the  narrow 
upper  end  of  the  valley,  is  the  solidly  built, 
cobblestone  village  of  Licenza,  Rounding 
a  curve  that  carries  the  highway  across  the 
stream  sharply  to  the  east,  our  'bus  deposits 
us  in  the  tiny  square  of  this  hoary,  palae- 
olithic community.  We  refresh  ourselves 
at  the  nearest  "taberna"^  and  "popina"^ 
combined,  with  a  draft  of  Horace's  own 
" Sabinum,  "haggle  mildly  but  firmly  over 
the  price  of  a  bottle  of  the  same,  which  is  de- 
signed to  go  with  our  luncheon  later,  and  set 
forth  to  see  the  town  and  spy  out  the  land. 
Now  that  the  'bus  has  disappeared  we 
are  startled  at  the  quietness  which  reigns 

'Epp.  I,  i8,  104.     "  Digentia's  cooling  stream." 
2"WineShop."        3 "Cook  Shop." 

22 


MAP    OF   THE   LICENZA   VALLEY 


23 


supreme.  From  innumerable  doors,  alleys, 
and  other  mysterious  openings  silent  hordes 
of  chubby  children  steal  forth  and  follow  in 
our  wake,  as  we  climb  the  chief  village  street. 
They  are  unresponsive  to  our  kindly  sug- 
gestion to  disperse,  and  so  we  take  them 
on,  feeling  like  Pied  Pipers,  but  without 
malevolence.  Our  peregrination  in  the  di- 
rection taken  is  abruptly  ended.  We  have 
reached  the  brink  of  the  town,  and  are  gaz- 
ing over  a  precipice.  But  the  view !  The 
upper  valley  and  all  that  in  it  is,  is  before 
us.  Gray-green  slopes  of  scanty  olive  and 
grape ;  new  grass ;  fresh-leaved  holm  and 
ilex  here  and  there  ;  the  wandering  rivulet; 
a  few  unmoved  and  unmovable  donkeys  in 
odd  spots  absorbing  the  warmth;  an  occa- 
sional rustic  lazily  wielding  his  mattock; 
and  all  around  us  on  every  side  the  envelop- 
ing hills.  This  is  all  that  for  the  moment 
we  actually  see  ;  but  it  is  beautiful,  satisfy- 
ing, restful.  The  peace  and  simple  charm, 
rather  than  any  wild  beauty,  or  distinctive 
scenic  feature,  are  what  Horace  emphasizes 
in  all  his  allusions  to  this  rural  retreat.  We 
can  now,  as  we  never  could  before,  see  why. 
No  nerve  could  remain  long  shattered  or 
even  sensitive  after  a  brief  exposure  to  air 
like  this,  which  is  at  once  an  anaesthetic  and 
a  tonic. 

As  we  emerge  from  our  reverie  and  be- 
gin to  conjecture  whither  to  look  for  the 

24 


fields  that  have  been  sung  into  undying 
fame,  we  are  all  at  once  conscious  of  another 
presence.  We  turn  to  greet  —  not  Horace 
(though  it  would  not  have  surprised  us  one 
whit  had  it  been  he),  but  the  village  padre, 
who  courteously  offers  to  indicate  to  us  the 
objects  of  interest.  We  are  grateful  for  his 
services,  and  with  deepest  interest  look  and 
listen.  With  a  scarcely  noticeable  move- 
ment of  his  hand  he  dismisses  the  now 
much  augmented  flock  of  children,  whose 
behavior  it  must  be  said  had  been  most  ex- 
emplary, for  they  had  neither  turned  "cart 
wheels ' '  at  the  rate  of  a  dozen  per  centesimo, 
nor  annoyed  us  by  their  infantile  importu- 
nities, after  the  manner  of  the  hardened  off- 
spring of  the  Roman  proletariat.  Turning 
then  to  us  the  padre  points  across  the  valley 
macro  indice  digito^  to  a  little  cleared  spot 
perhaps  a  kilometer  away,  that  we  can  bare- 
ly see.  "LaVillad'Orazio,"he  says.  With 
our  field  glasses  we  can  make  out  something 
that  seems  to  resemble  the  partially  erected 
foundations  of  a  house.  ' '  The  signori  will 
remember  this,  will  they  not?"  queries  our 
mentor,  and  forthwith  he  recites  to  us  in 
charmingly  accented  Latin  the  familiar  stan- 
zas : 

"No  ivory  walls, no  gilded  halls 
Mark  my  abode's  extravagance; 
As  upstart  heir  of  millionaire 

1  With  his  lean  forefinger. 
25 


I've  gained  no  swift  inheritance. 
But  friends  in  me  find  loyalty, 

A  kindly  vein  of  genius  too; 
By  rich  men  sought,  though  I  have  naught. 

What  further  crave  I,  gods,  of  you  ? 
Nor  seek  I  more  from  his  rich  store 

My  ably  generous  friend.    In  fine 
Enough  delight  for  this  glad  wight 

Is  just  yon  Sabine  farm  of  mine."i 

The  padre  is  indeed  a  treasure  trove,  and 
at  once  arouses  our  personal  interest.  He 
recites  so  delightfully  too.  The  old  sono- 
rous lines,  leavened  with  the  limpidity  of  the 
liquid  Latin  of  to-day,  seem  to  fall  from  his 
lips  a  veritable  rill  of  verbal  gold. 

But  there  is  a  cry  of  woe  down  the  street. 
From  every  dwelling  emerge  on  the  instant 
anxious  parents  and  grandparents.  The  air 
is  full  of  distressful  volubility.  We  hasten 
toward  an  excited  group  of  children,  but  the 
padre  has  been  quicker  than  we.  He  has  a 
weeping  bambino  in  his  arms,  that  has  just 
been  handed  up  by  a  vine-dresser  from  a  six 
by  eight  perpendicular  vineyard  situated  a 
few  feet  below  the  parapet  that  guards  the 
main  street.  The  child  is  unhurt  but  fright- 
ened. Having  soothed  it  the  padre  hands 
it  to  its  mother,  whose  objurgations  —  of 
even  greater  vividness,  in  vigor  of  thought 
and  figure  of  speech,  than  that  which  we 
phlegmatic  people  so  readily  attribute  to  our 

i"Non  ebur  neque  aureum 

Mea  renidet  in  domo  lacunar  .  .  ." 

Od.  II,  i8. 

26 


< 

u 
«1 


a 

H 

m 
in 

O 

u 

< 

a 

H 

as 


O 

o 

o 


Romance  neighbors  —  continue  to  strike  our 
ears  as  we  return  to  our  observations.  The 
padre  laughingly  explains.  "It  is  a  com- 
mon occurrence,  "  he  says.  "In  fact,  fre- 
quent news  items  appear  in  our  district 
papers,  from  Licenza,  Saracenesco,  Rocca 
Giovane,  and  other  villages  that  cling  to  pin- 
nacles, to  the  effect  that  Giovanni,  Maria, 
or  whoever  it  may  have  been,  '  fell  out  of 
town '  recently. ' '  We  scrutinize  the  padre's 
face  keenly ;  yes,  there  is  something  in  his 
eye,  and  soon  we  are  all  shaking  together 
with  silent  laughter. 

"And  is  that  Lucretilis?"  I  ask,  point- 
ing to  the  wide  slopes  above  the  Villa 
d'Orazio.  The  padre  nods.  "Yes,  all  of  yon- 
der hillside,  how  far  up  we  do  not  know,  but 
as  far  down  possibly  as  Rocca  Giovane, 
comprised  the  Horatian  estate.  We  have 
no  means  of  determining  its  exact  acreage. 
Conjecture  has  hazarded  many  estimates, 
but  all  lack  the  supporting  facts.  The  poet 
himself  usually  refers  to  his  farm,  as  you 
know,  in  affectionate  diminutives,  as,  for 
example, in  the  epistle  to  his  superintendent: 

'Vilice  silvarum  et  mihi  me  reddentis  agellV  ;^ 

and  elsewhere  he  speaks  of  his 

'"Good  bailiff  of  my  farm,  that  sniip  domain. 
Which  makes  its  master  feel  himself  aj^aiii.' 
(Conington's  tr.  Epp.  I,  i.}.) 

27 


'Purae  rivus  aquae  silvaque  iugerum 
Paucoruni'  "  .    .    .^  j| 

We  remember  the  passages  well,  and, 
eager  to  hear  more  of  the  padre's  beautiful 
Latin,  ask  him  to  recite  to  us  the  immortal 
invitation  to  Tyndaris.^ 

The  padre  is  very  obliging,  and  begins, 
while  our  eyes  rest  dreamily  on  the  Lucre-  a 
tilian  summit,  and  we  wonder  if  now  in  its  J| 
sadly  denuded  glades  Faunus  could  find  a 
hiding  place. 

"Swift  Faunus  often  doth  exchange 
Lycaeus  for  my  lovely  range 
Lucretilis,  and  there  doth  keep 

In  sheltered  dale,  from  rain  and  gale 
And  Summer's  sun,  my  tender  sheep. 

In  safety  run  through  wood  and  wold 
My  ewes  that  stray  far  from  the  fold 

In  search  of  thyme  and  arbutus. 
They  fear  no  snake  in  fen  or  brake 

No  wolf  that  wanders  ravenous, 

Whenever  Pan  with  dulcet  reed 

In  vale  and  on  Ustica's  mead 
Awakes  the  echoes,  Tyndaris. 

The  Gods  love  me  ;  my  piety, 
My  lyric  song  have  won  me  this  I 

For  thee  shall  Plenty's  horn  be  spilled. 
With  rural  joys  shalt  thou  be  filled; 

i"My  stream  of  pure  water,  my  woodland  of  a 
few  acres."     (Od.  Ill,  i6,  29.) 
2"Velox  amoenum  saepe  Lucretilem 
Mutat  Lycaeo  Faunus, et  igneam 
Defendit  aestatem  capellis 
Usque  meis  pluviosque  ventos."    (Od.  1, 17.) 

28 


I 


< 
z 

O 


« 
aj 

H 

O 


Thou  here  in  this  secluded  dell, 

From  Procyon's  heat  a  safe  retreat, 
Shalt  on  Anacreon's  lyre  tell 

Of  Circe's  and  Penelope's 

Joint  love  for  him  who  roved  the  seas. 
Here  shalt  thou  sip  —  'tis  innocent  — 

My  Lesbian  wine  beneath  this  vine. 
Nor  know  unseemly  merriment. 

Thou  needst  not  fear  lest  thy  good  name 
From  wanton  swain  shall  suffer  shame; 

The  wreath  that  doth  thy  fair  locks  crown, 
(Let  him  beware!)  he  may  not  tear, 

Nor  rend  thy  unoffending  gown.'' 

But  we  must  not  linger  in'  Licenza,  al- 
though we  are  loath  to  part  company  with 
so  excellent  an  expositor  of  Horatian  charm 
as  our  new  friend  the  padre.  After  a  most 
cordial  exchange  of  farewells,  we  are  off, 
having  a  care,  however,  for  the  low  parapet, 
lest  we  too  "fall  out  of  town." 

But  stay!  It  is  the  voice  of  the  padre  call- 
ing to  us.  Will  we  not  remain  just  a  paltry 
few  moments  until  he  can  open  for  us 

"Non  ante  verso  lene  meriim  cado'^f^ 

Besides,  he  has  something  antique,  of  great 
interest  to  palaeographers,  to  show  us.  Will 
the  signori  not  tarry  a  little  (juarter  of  an 
hour?  We  are  not  long  in  deciding.  The 
clergy  were  ever  past  masters  in  wine  con- 
noisseurship;  and  the  prospect  of  a  '  'pia  tes- 

'A  jar  of  mellow  wine  with  seal  intact.  (Od.  Ill, 
29,2.) 

29 


ta,  nata  Consule  Manlio"  ^  is  too  much  for 
us.  Furthermore,  the  padre's  ancient  curio 
may  be  well  worth  investigating.  Many  a 
rarity  has  come  to  light  from  the  subfuscous 
shelves  of  humble  and  unknown  incunabula 
collectors.  We  turn  about  and  accompany 
the  padre  to  his  modest  abode. 

The  wine  is  beyond  cavil,  full  of  the  sun- 
shine of  former  days,  and  our  hearts  are  glad 
within  us.  Now  for  his  treasure.  The  padre 
brings  it  forth  reverently,  divers  sheets  of 
ancient  papyrus  covered  with  Latin  charac- 
ters. "This,"  he  says  unctuously,  "is  one 
of  the  most  interesting  bits  of  Horatiana  in 
existence.  I  will  tell  you  as  briefly  as  I  can 
what  it  is.  It  was  found  here  in  Licenza 
many  years  ago,  and  has  been  carefully 
preserved  and  handed  down  by  my  predeces- 
sors in  office.  These  rotting  pieces  of  papy- 
rus are  no  other  than  copies  of  what  must 
have  been  a  country  newspaper  issued  here 
in  Licenza  during  the  early  empire.  See, 
here  is  its  name."  And  in  faded  but  plain 
letters  we  read:  " Praeco  Digentianus."'^ 
"Only  a  small  portion  is  now  decipher- 
able," continues  the  padre;  "allow  me  to 
read  and  explain.  Here  is  the  first  item; 
it  seems  to  be  real  '  country '  Latin  :  '  A  few 
days  since  a  bolt  from  the  blue  struck  an  elm 

i"A  good  old  jug  put  up  when  Manlius  was  con- 
sul."   (Od.III,2i,  I.) 

2 "The  Licenza  Herald." 

30 


tree  standing  in  neighbor  Flaccus'  back  pas- 
ture, and  clean  burned  tip  the  whole  tree.  How 
about  it,  Quint  f  We  guess  yoti'll  think  Jupiter 
cuts  some  ice  now. '  ^  Strangely  enough, ' ' 
says  the  padre,  "in  the  issue  for  the  follow- 
ing week,  which  I  have  here,  appears  what 
is  now  the  thirty-fourth  ode  of  the  first  book: 

'I,  whom  the  gods  had  found  a  client 
Rarely  with  pious  rites  compliant, 
At  unbelief  disposed  to  nibble. 
And  pleased  with  every  sophist  quibble  — 
I,  who  had  deemed  great  Jove  a  phantom, 
Now  own  my  errors  and  recant  'em! 
Have  I  not  lived  of  late  to  witness, 
Athwart  a  sky  of  passing  brightness. 
The  god,  upon  his  car  of  thunder. 
Cleave  the  calm  elements  asunder  ? 
And,  through  the  firmament  careering, 
Level  his  bolts  with  aim  unerring  ?'"- 

The  padre  pauses  and  refills  our  glasses, 
which  we  drain  at  a  gulp,  our  amazement 
having  got  the  better  of  our  discretion. 

"The  second  legible  item,"  the  padre 
goes  on,  scarcely  sipping  his  glass,  "is  this : 
'We  are  glad  to  include  this  week  among  our 

'"Ante  paucos  dies  ictu  fulminis  ex  sereno  coelo 
coniecti,  ulmo  foliosior,  quae  in  agello  Horati  nostri 
erat,  deHagravit.    Heus   Quinte!    Quid   agis?    Nunc 
visne  lovem  pro  nihilo  putare?" 
'Mahoney's  tr. 

"Parcus  deorum  cultor  et  infrequens, 
Insanientis  dum  sapientiae 
Consultus  erro,  nunc  retrorsum 

Vela  dare  atque  iterare  cursus 
Cogor  relictos." 

31 


other  contributions  of  the  sort  the  following 
' '  pome ' '  by  our  esteemed  and  well-known  good 
fellow  down  the  road.  We  think  it  is  pretty 
good  stiijf,  and  ought  sure  to  make  a  hit  with 
G.  C.'^  The  verses  are  these  : 

'Come  hither,  dear  Maecenas,  come! 
I  know  my  Sabine  wine  is  bum; 
But  sealed  it  was  by  my  own  hand 
That  day  —  our  friends  will  understand  — 
Th'  applause  for  thee  at  Pompey's  grew  so 
It  almost  seemed  thou  wast  Caruso; 
And  echoes  fairly  made  Rome  teeter 
As  back  they  rolled  from  old  St.  Peter. 

At  home  upon  the  Esquiline 
I  know  thou  hast  the  choicest  wine; 
That  Cales  brand  and  Caecuban 
Would  warm  the  heart  of  god  or  man. 
Such  glorious  stuff  as  flavors  thy  cups 
Was  never  meant  to  moisten  my  cups! 
But  here,  Maecenas  ('tis  no  jest), 
Vin  ordinaire  tastes  like  the  best.'^ 

That  Maecenas  responded  is  clear,"  says 
our  host  to  his  auditors,  now  staring  with 
glassy  eyes  at  the  momentous  pages,  "from 
what  we  find  in  the  next  issue.  "  Carefully 
lifting  the  top  sheets  he  reads: 

i"Hos  versus  a  nostro  combibone  noto  tarn  bene 
compos'tos,  libentes,  ut  semper,  in  alias  huiuseditionis 
nugas  ascribimus.  C.  Cilnium  (Maecenatem)  sane 
percutient." 

2 "Vile  potabis  modicis  Sabinum 

Cantharis,  Graeca  quod  ego  ipse  testa 
Conditum  levi,  datus  in  theatro 

Cum  tibi  plausus. 
Care  Maecenas  eques,  .  .  ."     (Od.  I,  20.) 

32 


I 


H 


H 


H 


H 
< 

O 


t/J 

s 

H 
< 


I 


'"G.  C.  Maecenas,  the  well-known  Fidus 
Achates,  if  we  may  say  so,  of  Governor  Gustus 
and  promoter  of  rural  poets,  whom  we  have  late- 
ly missed  from  our  midst,  has  just  week-ended 
with  our  excellent  neighbor  arid  budding  verse- 
maker  at  the  latter' s  summer  cottage.'"^ 

By  this  time  we  are  well  on  the  way  to  a 
conviction  that  we  are  '  'insaniefitis  sapien- 
tiae  consulti "  de  facto,  so  far  as  the  padre's 
excellent  Caecuban  has  left  us  any  power  of 
ratiocination  at  all.  But  the  padre  is  not 
done  yet.  Like  helpless  babes  we  accept 
from  his  hand  our  refilled  glasses,  and  listen 
as  in  a  dream  to  his  voice,  which  seems 
somehow  to  be  receding  from  us. 

"The  last  bit  that  we  have  been  able  to 
read  is  this,"  he  says,  raising  his  voice  a 
little,  which  was  well  he  did. 

"'During  the  fore  part  of  the  ween  our  Lord 
of  the  Manor,  so  to  speak,  was  nearly  killed  by 
a  tree  falling  on  him  utider  which  he  was  smok- 
ing aiid  composing.  We  don't  know  if  the  tree 
was  a  rotten  one  or  not,  or  if  some  god  didn't 
have  it  in  for  him.  But  at  any  rate  he  has 
sent  us  some  original  lines,  which  haven't  been 
printed  anywhere  else.'  "2 

'  "C.  Cil.  Maecenas,  'fidus  Achates'  divi  Caesaris 
clarissimus,  et  literarum  (juasi  fautor,  quern  nuper 
nimis  raro  nobis  in  mediis  iam  videmus,  fincm  heb- 
domadis  apud  vicinum  bonum  et  gemminantem  versi- 
ficatorem  degit." 

'  "  Priore  hebdomadis  parte,  a  cadente  arbore,  sub 
cuius  umbra   scribens   fumansfiuc   sedcbat,  animam 

33 


Our  host's  voice  is  now  miles  away  as  he 
reads  what  we  know  at  present  as  the  thir- 
teenth ode  of  the  second  book : 

"  '  O  Tree,  the  man  who  set  thee  here 
With  cursed  hands  in  a  cursed  year, 
That  thou  might'st  some  day  do  me  harm 
And  bring  disgrace  upon  my  farm: 

That  man  would  cut  his  father's  throat, 
Nor  care  a  damn  whom  next  he  smote; 
Some  guest  perchance  on  pretext  slight 
He'd  murder  in  the  dead  of  night. 

He'd  know  Medea's  draughts  to  brew, 
And  every  sort  of  crime  to  do. 
'Twas  he  in  sooth,  thou  blackguard  stump, 
Who  put  thee  there  my  head  to  thump. '"i 

The  padre  has  now  faded  utterly  out  of  ^ 
our  perceptions.  In  some  manner,  which  I 
would  not  divulge  if  I  could,  we  manage  to 
make  our  way  through  the  square  and  out 
upon  the  highway  leading  back  to  the  villa. 
Gradually  our  reason  returns,  and  we  begin 
to  exchange  comments.  The  sanest  obser- 
vation seems  to  be  that  of  one  of  us  who 
says:  "It  would  appear  that  country  editors 
are  the  same  yesterday,  to-day,  and  for- 
ever!    .     .     .     Isn't    Horace  just  awfully 

paene  omisit  Dominus  Villae  noster.  Utrum  arbor 
fortasse  esset  putris,  an  deus  iratus  poetae  impio 
malum  intenderet,  nescimus;  at  tamen  ille  ad  nos 
hoc  poema  misit,  quod  nunc  primum  vulgo  apparet." 

1"  Ille  et  nefasto  te  posuit  die, 

Quicumque  primum,  et  sacrilega  manu 
Produxit,  arbos,  in  nepotum 

Perniciem  opprobriumque  pagi." 

34 


immortal!  .  .  .  How  that  priest  could  read 
those  verses!  .  .  .  And  what  Olympian 
vintages  he  serves !  .  .  .  Here  goes  our 
bottle  of  Sabine  into  the  creek !  .  .  .  Tell 
me,  what  do  you  chaps  honestly  think  that 
old  ecclesiastical  Ganymede  was  trying  to 
put  over,  an}^way?" 

For  a  kilometer  or  so  we  walk  briskly 
back  over  the  road  we  traversed  earlier  in 
the  morning,  stopping  on  the  concrete  bridge 
that  spans  the  miniature  river  to  gaze  up 
stream  through  a  rocky  gorge  at  the  bald 
imposing  scars  that  guard  the  valley's  upper 
reaches.  Here  there  is  a  suggestion  of  wild- 
ness.  Perhaps  it  was  up  in  there  somewhere 
that  Horace,  straying  ''ultra  termimim  in 
silva  Sabina"  (beyond  the  limits  of  his  Sa- 
bine wood)  with  only  a  walking  stick  in  his 
hand,  charmed  into  impotence  by  his  Or- 
phean rehearsal  of  some  casual  love  ditty,  the 
storied  lupine  wanderer.  One  of  us  suggests 
that  we  sing  ' '  Integer  vitae,  ' '  but  after  can- 
vassing the  situation  carefully,  we  wisely 
refrain.  The  Sabbath  stillness  is  one  deter- 
rent :  the  padre  might  hear  us  and  laugh 
in  his  flowing  sleeve  ;  and  again,  if  there 
are  still  wolves  about,  we  cannot  sing  like 
Horace  ;  the  result  might  not  be  the  same. 

A  modest  sign  on  a  slender  post,  stand- 
ing where  a  by-road  leaves  the  highway  and 
winds  up  through  a  tangle  of  bushes  and 
young  trees,  announces  the  Villa  d'Orazio. 

35 


With  considerable  eagerness  we  hurry  up 
through  the  thicket  to  a  small,  fairly  level 
plateau,  and  are  confronted  at  last  by  all 
that  is  left  —  plus  modern  additions  —  of 
the  most  interesting  Summer  residence  of 
antiquity.  By  a  freakish  twist  of  the  mind, 
I  am  led  to  look  first  of  all  for  the  pine  tree 
that  Horace,  in  a  little  ode  to  Diana,  says 
overshadowed  his  villa: 

"Thine,  virgin  goddess, be  the  pine 
That  o'er  my  cottage  doth  incline. 
As  years  complete  shall  past  me  scud, 
I'll  offer  it  a  young  boar's  blood  — 
A  youngster  hot  for  porcine  jousts, 
And  meditating  sidelong  thrusts."  ^ 

But  no  such  tree  is  visible.  The  Huns  and 
the  Ostrogoths  have  converted  it  into  spear- 
handles.  Instead  we  see  a  one-headed  Cer- 
berus in  human  garb  clambering  over  the 
foundation  walls  toward  us  with  alacrity. 
His  vociferous  vocables  are  evidently  meant 
for  us,  and  we  pause.  Yes,  he  is  the  watch- 
dog of  the  villa,  the  government  agent  in 
charge  of  the  excavating  work,  and  is  re- 
garding us  with  evident  suspicion.  Although 
subsequently  we  became  fully  satisfied  that 
this  threatening  attitude  was  generic  and 
assumed  with  malice  prepense  irrespective 

i"Imminens  villae  tua  pinus  esto, 
Quam  per  exactos  ego  laetus  annos 
Verris  obliquum  meditantis  ictum 
Sanguine  donem."  (Od.  111,22.) 

36 


X 

< 

> 


z 

O 


o 

< 

id 

as 

CL. 

D 


of  persons,  yet  for  the  moment  it  seems  to 
us  quite  specific  for  some  impalpable  reason 
or  another,  and  our  first  conscious  reaction 
is  a  feeling  of  surprise  at  being  taken  so 
readily  for  guerrillas,  our  second  the  query 
how  an  innocent  belligerent  may  most 
properly  take  the  initiative  in  proposing 
peace  measures.  I  bethink  me  quickly  of  the 
poppy-seed  cake,  that  on  a  famous  occasion 
drugged  another  irate  guardian,  and  at  once 
fumble  in  my  pocket  for  a  few  specimens  of 
latter-day  manufacture.  As  there  is  no 
known  serum  that  will  "immunize"  the 
average  functionary  anywhere  against  the 
speedy  reaction  of  such  a  sedative,  I  look 
for  immediate  results.  Nor  am  I  disap- 
pointed. "Cerberus "not  only  steps  aside 
and  magniloquently  bids  us  partake  freely 
of  all  that  the  villa  has  to  offer,  but  also 
evinces  a  significant  willingness  to  act  as 
our  host  and  cicerone.  This  offer  is  quite  to 
our  mind.  We  establish  a  still  more  inti- 
mate relation  with  the  bailiff  by  announc- 
ing our  several  connections  with  properly 
accredited  classical  movements  in  that  land 
which  the  bestowal  of  the  poppy-seed  cake 
had  instantly  intimated  was  ours. 

It  is  with  less  scientific  than  poetic  ardor 
that  we  now  begin  our  rapid  survey  of  the 
ruins.  We  are  thinking  not  so  much  of  the 
restored  ''opus  rclintlalKm" oi  the  sustaining 
walls;  not  so  much  of  the  tessellated  frag- 

37 

186534 


ments  of  floors  in  the  spaces  that  anciently 
were  rooms ;  not  so  much  of  architectural 
detail  and  conjectural  reconstruction,  as  of 
that  clamorous  longing — ^now,  if  ever,  to 
be  gratified — for  some  echo  of  the  Teian 
strings  once  strummed  in  yonder  garden 
of  roses.  One  is  always  at  a  loss  for  words 
when  standing  in  holy  places.  The  imagina- 
tion is  busy  with  unutterable  things.  Men- 
tal pictures,  that  defy  reproduction,  are 
flashing  before  one's  mind.  As  I  strive 
impotently  to  define  in  word-images  what 
I  seem  to  see  and  feel  to  have  been  the 
life  going  on  in  this  sequestered  spot  two 
milleniums  ago,  I  recall  Horace's  advice  to 
scribblers,  good,  bad, or  indift'erent :  ' '  Select 
a  subject  well  within  your  powers;  he  who 
chooses  effectively  shall  lack  neither  facility  nor 
felicity  of  expression."^  The  subject  matter 
of  my  retrospections  is  clearly  "non  aequa 
viribus,  "^  and  so  I  turn  mechanically  from  a 
dream  castle  of  the  past  to  a  very  present 
heap  of  stone  and  mortar. 

Reckless  deforestation,  which  must  have 
gone  on  in  Italy,  I  cannot  say  how  long,  has 
been  the  great  ally  of  natural  erosion.  De- 
prived of  trees  the  mountain  sides  "wash" 
freely  during  the  rainy  season  and  severe 
storms.  This  is  one  of  the  sorrowful  notes 
that  that  fair  land  strikes  to-day  in  the  heart 

^A.  P.,  38.        2  Beyond  my  powers. 
38 


i 


of  the  visitor.  The  Apennines  are  shorn  of 
their  glory,  which  is  hardly  atoned  for  by 
other  qualities  that  elicit  our  unfailing  admi- 
ration, and  their  stricken  and  gullied  sides 
are  painful  reminders  of  man's  necessities 
and  improvidence.  It  is  plain  that  here  on 
Horace's  farm  natural  agencies  thus  aug- 
mented have  been  actively  at  work.  Doubt- 
less goodly  portions  of  the  poet's  goat 
pasture  on  the  hillside  above  us  had  long 
helped  to  cover  the  pavements  on  which  we 
are  walking,  and  still  lie  on  the  fish  pond 
and  other  unexcavated  sections. 

Little  wonder,  then,  that  the  villa's  founda- 
tions lay  until  quite  modern  times  buried 
well  under  the  soil.  During  the  Middle  Ages 
nothing  was  known  of  the  site.  It  is  only 
since  the  Renaissance  that  the  question  has 
been  asked:  "Where  was  it?"  This  question 
was  answered  by  two  learned  abbes  about 
the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
Capmartin  de  Chaupy  (or  de  Chapuy) 
and  De  Sanctis.  I  shall  not  attempt  to  de- 
cide which  one  was  the  actual  discoverer. 
Gaston  Boissier^  gives  the  credit  to  De 
Chaupy,  and  seems  to  regard  Dc  Sanctis  as 
an  interloper  who  tried  to  take  undue  ad- 
vantage of  the  former's  researches.  But 
Boissier  is  a  Frenchman  and  so  is  his  De 
Chaupy,  while   De   Sanctis   is   an   Italian. 

iVid.  "The  Country  of  Horace  and  Vergil,"  by 
Gaston  Boissier  (Putnam's). 

39 


Others  ascribe  the  actual  finding  of  the 
ruins  to  De  Sanctis.  However  that  may  be, 
both  abbes  agreed  that  the  villa  stood 
where  we  now  are,  and  the  tradition  formu- 
lated by  them  has  held  and  gained  ground 
for  over  a  century  and  a  half.  A  certain 
school  of  critics,  among  them  Boissier,  has 
believed  that  the  house  lay  further  west 
and  south  up  the  slope,  nearer  that  human 
eagle's  nest  Rocca  Giovane ;  but  the  proba- 
bilities seem  to  be  strongly  against  this 
theory.  Modern  archaeologists  and  the  Ro- 
man schools,  if  I  am  correctly  informed, 
accept  such  evidence  as  there  is  (and  it  is 
chiefly  from  Horace's  own  allusions) as  fa- 
voring by  long  odds  the  present  site.  And 
so  it  is  officially  known  as  the  "  Villa  d'Ora- 
zio,"  and  here  the  work  of  excavating  is  being 
carried  on.  It  is  a  fair  inference  that  this 
estate,  presented  by  a  man  of  Maecenas' 
wealth  and  power,  to  a  man  of  letters  who 
had  won  for  himself  in  Rome  the  place  we 
know  Horace  did  win,  was  probably  some- 
thing more  than  a  cottage  and  half  a  dozen 
acres  of  land.  There  is  no  evidence  as  to 
size — various  estimates  have  ranged  from 
thirty  to  a  hundred  acres — but  up  to  the 
present  no  Roman  villa  so  pretentious  as 
this  one  has  been  uncovered  here  in  the 
Licenza  Valley,  nor  do  there  appear  to  be 
traditions  of  any  others.  As  Roman  estates 
went  elsewhere,  this  country  place  of  the 

40 


i 


-F^    * 


O 

o 

J 

o 
as 


« 


t'S 


poet  probably  was  a  modest  one,  though 
here  it  must  have  seemed  quite  palatial  to 
Horace's  more  humble  neighbors. 

As  increasing  the  probabilities  that  our 
site  is  the  real  one  is  the  fact  that  a  copious 
stream  from  a  near-by  source  flows  a  little 
to  the  north,  as  I  recall  it,  of  the  ruins,  and 
may  well  have  been  the 

"Fons  etiani  rivo  dare  nomen  idoneus"^ 

(included  by  Horace  in  a  somewhat  indefi- 
nite description  of  his  farm) ,  which  seems  to 
be  the  beginning  of  the  main  stream  of 
the  valley,  the  "Fiume  Liccnza." 

Furthermore,  as  we  stand  in  perhaps 
one  of  Horace's  guest  chambers,  we  are 
reminded  that  a  Roman  archaeologist  of 
authority  regards  the  pattern  of  the  mosaic 
pavement  as  being  distinctively  Republican 
in  character. 

But  after  all  is  said,  it  must  be  confessed 
that  we  have  no  absolute  and  irrefutable 
proof  that  this  is  very  Villa  of  Horatian 
villas.  It  probablywas.  It  cannot  be  shown 
that  it  was  not.  The  situation  is  not  unlike 
that  depicted  on  the  geograj^hical  maps  of 
the  north  and  south  polar  regions  in  our 
whilom  geographies,  before  the  wavering 
red  lines  were  added  that  marked  the  final 
achievements  of  Peary  and  Amundsen  ;  the 

'  "A  fountain  of  suflicicnt  size  to  name  the  river." 
(Epp.  I,  i6,  I2.J 

41 


colors  of  the  known  all  converge  toward  the 
unknown  and  hem  it  in  unescapably,  but 
still  they  fade  at  last  into  that  narrow  white 
circle  of  only  hopeful  uncertainty. 

Perhaps  further  digging  will  bring  to  light 
the  long  sought  positive  bit  of  evidence, 
some  inscription  or  bronze  tablet  that  will 
confirm  our  prejudices.  Perhaps  it  lies 
there  now  under  the  detritus  that  covers 
what  our  "Cerberus"  says  may  be  the 
''piscina"  or  fish  pond  of  the  villa.  But 
there  is  no  hope  that  we  shall  see  it  to-day 
before  we  leave. 

Facing  these  facts,  however,  does  not 
diminish  the  keenness  of  our  interest,  or  les- 
sen our  belief,  in  the  reality  of  what  we  are 
seeing.  We  note  that  the  reticulate  stone 
work  of  the  main  walls  has  been  artificially 
built  up  to  a  height  of  two  or  three  feet, 
so  as  to  appear  better,  by  the  authorities 
in  charge  of  the  work.  "Cerberus  "  shows 
us  a  newly  excavated  "  Nymphaeum" {foun- 
tain dedicated  to  the  water  nymphs), 
and  a  rectangular  stone  hole  with  under- 
ground conduits  leading  from  it,  which  is 
thought  possibly  to  have  been  a  heating 
plant.  The  remains  of  a  long  portico,  ex- 
tending out  in  front  of  the  villa,  have 
also  been  uncovered,  and  we  are  told  that 
there  is  a  large  area  in  that  part  of  the 
grounds  which  is  still  to  be  attacked  with 
pick  and  shovel.    Truly,  the  villa  is  more 

42 


elaborate  than  we  had  thought,  when  earlier 
in  the  day  the  padre  of  Licenza  (we  smile 
as  we  recall  him)  had  shown  us  from  afar 
a  pile  of  stones  in  a  brushwood  clearing. 

It  is  now  luncheon  time,  and  our  journey 
afoot  to  Vicovaro  over  the  footpaths  of 
Lucretilis  by  way  of  Rocca  Giovane  must 
be  begun  betimes,  for  the  sky  has  been 
clouding  up,  though  we  had  not  noticed  it, 
and — yes,  it  is  actually  beginning  to  rain. 
"Cerberus"  invites  us  into  his  tool  hut 
until  the  shower  shall  pass,  and  secures  our 
valuable  signatures  in  the  Visitors'  Book, 
in  which  we  note  many  familiar  names. 

The  shower  is  over.  We  bid  ' '  Cerberus ' ' 
whole-hearted  farewells  mingled  with  more 
* '  poppy-seed  cakes, ' '  take  a  last  look  at  the 
gray  stones  that  once  knew  those  "Nodes 
cenaeqiie  Deiim,"^  and  begin  our  climb  up 
the  hill  to  the  westward,  into  fields,  it  may 
be,  where  his  neighbors  were  wont  to  smile 
as  they  saw  the  poet's  puffing  figure  labo- 
riously 

' '  glebas  et  saxa  niovenlem, ' '  ^ 

in  company  with  his  slaves  or  freedmen. 

The  real  "  Fons  Bandnsiae"  may  have 
been  at  Venusium  ;  but  we  know  that  there 
is  another  one,  so  called,  near  our  pathway. 

" 'Nights  and  banquets  of  the  gods."  (Sat.  II, 
6,65.) 

'Epp.  1, 14,39,"  moving  clods  and  stones." 

43 


Of  course  we  must  not  go  by  without  at 
least  a  glimpse  of  it.  We  find  it  with  little 
trouble,  for  the  ground  all  about  us  is  wet 
with  its  overflow,  as  might  be  expected  at 
this  season.  It  is  a  tiny  cascade,  a  moun- 
tain-side spring,  the  main  source  of  the 
"  Digentia"  (Licenza).  It  is  cool  and  at- 
tractive, but  as  the  padre's  mellow  draughts 
have  not  yet  developed  that  inevitable  after- 
thirst,  we  remain  only  long  enough  to  visu- 
alize the  picture  of  a  pretty  pool  lying  in 
some  indistinguishable  ruins  of  stone,  and 
proceed  on  our  way. 

Under  a  tree  in  a  bit  of  olive  orchard  we 
halt  for  bread  and  sausage.  Through  a  rift 
in  the  foliage  we  can  see  the  villa's  ruins 
well  below  us.  It  is  our  last  view.  At  the 
foot  of  the  slope  just  in  front  of  us  stand  an 
ass  and  her  foal.  I  wager  that  during  our 
stay  one  or  the  other  of  the  beasts  will  move 
perceptibly.  I  lose.  Sabine  peace  is  evi- 
dently in  and  of  everything.  Overcoming 
the  seductive  somnolence  we  also  feel,  and 
drawing  from  our  pockets  copies  of  that 
'  'Monumentum  aere  perennius, ' '  we  cele- 
brate a  brief  Horatian  sacrament,  by  re- 
reading three  or  four  of  the  poet's  many 
allusions  to  his  farm  and  the  simple  life  he 
led  there. 

Horace  writes  (Sat.  II,  6)  that  he  had 
wanted  a  farm  for  some  time  before  this  one 
was  given  him.    We  can  readily  understand 

44 


how  a  man  of  his  sensitiveness  would  soon 
weary  of  the  artificial  life  he  had  to  lead  in 
Rome  as  his  popularity  grew.  He  says: 
'  'How  I  used  to  long  for  just  a  half-acre  or  so 
with  a  shack  on  it,  a  vegetable  garden,  a  well, 
and  a  couple  of  nice  trees  !  Well,  I  have  them, 
and  vastly  more.  The  gods  have  certainly  treated 
me  royally.   I  am  quite  content.^' 

To  some  otherwise  unknown  friend  he 
writes  another  time  (Epp.  I,  l6)  :  ''Antici- 
pating your  query,  my  dear  Quinctius,  about  my 
farm,  its  character,  location,  crops,  meadows, 
fruits  and  vines,  I  will  give  you  a  short  descrip- 
tion right  now  {^doubtless  you'll  think  my  pride 
has  made  me  unusually  garndous !) :  a  mass  of 
kills,  unbroken  save  by  this  well-wooded  valley, 
lies  all  about  me.  The  valley  runs  nearly  north 
and  south;  that  is,  the  morning  sun  illumines 
its  western  or  right-hand  side,  and  the  after- 
noon sun  its  eastern.  Climate — perfect.  Cher- 
ries and  plums  in  abundance.  Two  or  three  kinds 
of  oak  trees  furnish  mast  for  my  porkers  and 
shade  for  me.  You'd  think  it  quite  like  Colorado 
or  southern  California.  There's  a  brook  here 
too  that's  colder  than  the  Pinguisibi,  and  the 
water  seems  to  agree  with  me  perfectly.  0,  I 
tell  you  there's  no  place  like  this  for  me  during 
the  sizzling  days!" 

"/  promised  you,"  he  writes  to  Maecenas 
(Epp.  \,  y),  "that  I  would  come  back  from 
the  country  in  five  days,  and,  liar  that  I  am,  I 
have  been  here  all  of  August.  If  I  were  really  ill, 

45 


7  know  you  would  forgive  me;  will  you  not  also 
forgive  me  for  having  remained  away  merely 
out  of  fear  of  being  ill,  now  that  early  figs  and 
hot  weather  are  keeping  the  undertaker  busy,  and 
even  the  trifling  affairs  of  senate  and  forum  are 
bringing  on  fevers  and  necessitating  night  ses- 
sions of  the  Probate  Court. 

In  one  of  the  Epodes  (I,  31)  Horace  says 
to  Maecenas : 

' '  Thy  bounty  hath  enriched  me  beyond  my 
dreams." 

In  Od.  II,  16,  37,  we  read  :    ''To  me  un- 
erring Fate  hath  given  a  small  domain,  .    .    .  the 
fine  breath  of  Grecian  song,  and  scorn  for  the  en- 
vious crowd.'' ^ 
And  in  Od.  Ill,  I,  41: 

"  But  if  nor  Phrygian  marble  satisfies, 
Nor  purple  brighter  far  than  starry  skies; 
If  costly  wine  and  oriental  nard 
Have  lost  their  savor  for  a  soul-sick  bard  — 
Then  -why  should  I  erect  a  columned  pile, 
Or  lofty  hall,  to  stir  up  envious  bile? 
Why  should  I  change  my  Sabine  Valley,  pray, 
For  all  the  irksome  riches  of  Cathay?" 

This  ceremonial  reading  of  Horace  over, 
we  forsake  the  oHve  grove  and  our  unre- 
sponsive comrades  and  return  to  the  rough 
hillside  trail.  We  have  heard  of  another 
Bandusian  fount,  which  we  know  cannot  be 
far  hence.  We  are  in  dire  need  of  it,  for 
our  thirst  has  reached  an  alarming  stage. 

1  Bennett's  tr. 
46 


Faunus  leads  us  thither.  It  must  have  been 
the  god  himself,  else  we  had  never  found  it. 
We  are  reasonably  sure  that  nothing  will 
ever  be  able  to  shake  our  belief  that  this 
is  the  only  real,  authentic,  genuine  "Pons 
Bandusiae,"  as  we  kneel  by  a  babbling  run- 
nel that  gushes  in  considerable  volume  from 
a  crevice  in  a  rock  protected  by  overhang- 
ing foliage.  The  water  is  as  clear  as  a  New 
England  spring.  One  of  us  in  his  eagerness 
partially  falls  in,  but  he  cheerfully  hangs  up 
his  "dripping  vestments"  as  an  offering, 
and  vows  an  ode  to  the  '  'Genius  Loci. ' '  To  us, 
reflecting  on  the  delicate  structure  of  odes, 
philosophizing  and  listening  to  the  music 
of  the  waters,  cometh  an  ancient  yet  pictur- 
esque beldame  with  short,  scant  skirt  and 
huge  brogans,  and  bearing  a  large  bundle 
on  her  head.  At  the  sight  of  us  lounging 
by  the  spring, the  crone  is  evidently  startled. 
But  she  recovers  quickly,  and,  dropping  her 
bundle  for  a  drink,  cackles  in  toothless  Sab- 
inese  :  "  Buona  sera,  signori;  ecco  la  fontana 
Bandnsiana/' '  Now  we  know  without  doubt 
where  we  are.  For  us  the  age-long  debate 
is  ended,  and  we  make  our  due  acknowledg- 
ments, both  verbally  and  substantially.  The 
aged  one  departs  in  a  cloud  of  "Grazie"s, 
we  consult  our  watches,  and  discover  that 
we  must  fly.  The  ode  is  never  finished, 
which  is  just  as  well,  for  we  have  no  desire 
to  dim  the  lustre  of  Horace. 

47 


Our  dream  journey  to  Rocca  Giovane 
through  the  afternoon  shadows  is  as  unfor- 
gettable as  a  Palatine  sunset.  Innumerable 
nightingales  sing  us  entirely  apart  from  our- 
selves. We  become  wholly  unaware  of  any 
earthly  relationship.  Every  tree  contains 
one  of  these  elusive  phantoms  singing  its 
undying  melody  to  our  ravished  ears, 

"Was  never  voice  of  ours  could  say 
Our  inmost  in  the  sweetest  way, 
Like  yonder  voice  aloft,  and  link 
All  hearers  in  the  song  they  drink. 
Our  wisdom  speaks  from  failing  blood. 
Our  passion  is  too  full  in  flood, 
We  want  the  key  of  his  wild  note 
Of  truthful  in  a  tuneful  throat, 
The  song  seraphically  free 
Of  taint  of  personality." 

In  the  pygmy  town  of  Rocca  Giovane, 
which  clings  to  the  indented  rocks  like  a 
stronghold  of  the  Peruvian  Incas,  there  is 
a  Horatian  association  that  must  claim  our 
brief  attention.  It  is  with  regret  that  we 
shake  ourselves,  as  we  emerge  from  a  grove 
directly  into  the  village,  and  wonder  if  we 
be  truly  mortals.  But  the  spell  cast  by 
the  little  "Dryads  of  the  trees"  is  gone, 
for  the  "Fane  of  Vacuna, "  that  stirs  our 
memories,  lies  yonder,  now  the  village 
church.  Imbedded  in  its  walls  is  an  in- 
scription which  we  easily  find  and  read. 
It  tells  us  that  ' '  Vespasian  rebuilt  at  his  own 
expense  this  temple  of  Victory,  which  time  had 

48 


nearly  destroyed."  In  his  epistle  to  his  old 
friend  Aristius  Fuscus,i  the  one  in  which 
he  refers  to  Fuscus  as  a  lover  of  the  city 
and  to  himself  as  a  lover  of  the  country, 
' '  but  in  other  respects  they  are  like  a  pair  of  old 
doves  nodding  together  on  a  perch, ' '  and  then 
goes  on  to  say:  "  You,  Fuscus,  keep  the  nest, 
while  I  circle  abroad  admiring  the  streams, 
the  mossy  rocks  and  the  woodland" — in  this 
epistle  Horace  closes  by  saying:  "/  am 
writing  this  from  the  tumble-down  temple  of 
Vactina,  and  am  quite  content,  barring  your 
absence."  There  was  uncertainty  about  it 
among  the  Romans,  I  believe,  but  some 
of  their  antiquarians  identified  Vacuna  with 
Victoria,  Vacuna  being  the  name  of  a  Sabine 
goddess.  It  is  quite  clear  that  Vespasian, 
who  we  know  was  of  Sabine  extraction, 
accepted  this  theory,  as  the  inscription 
shows.  If  the  identification  is  correct,  then 
it  must  have  been  near  where  wc  now  are 
that  Horace  wrote  that  friendly  and  play- 
ful letter. 

The  church  to-day  commands  a  wide  pros- 
pect. The  entire  valley  from  the  Anio  to 
Licenza  and  beyond  is  spread  out  before  it. 
But  wc  must  cut  short  our  ruminations,  and 
see  if  there  is  not  some  way  out  of  town 
and  down  to  the  valley  other  than  the  quasi 
conventional  one  suggested  to  us  by  the 

'Epp.  1, 10 
49 


padre  of  guileful  memory.  There  is  one, 
we  find,  but  the  difference  between  it  and 
the  other  is  so  slight  as  to  be  negligible. 
However,  if  parlous,  the  descent  is  full  of 
excitement  and  pleasure,  and  at  last,  envel- 
oped in  the  deepening  shadows  of  a  Sabine 
evening,  we  are  safely  on  the  turnpike,  trudg- 
ing to  Vicovaro  and  our  train. 

Crossing  the  Campagna  after  dark,  with 
the  distant  glimmering  lights  of  Rome  beck- 
oning us  to  comfort  and  repose,  drinking  in 
such  odors  of  a  fragrant  April  night  as  Hor- 
ace must  have  known,  it  is  difficult  for  us  to 
believe  that  threescore  and  more  genera- 
tions of  ever-changing  humanity  have  trod 
these  poppies  under  foot,  since  the  poet,  to 
whom  we  have  gladly  done  honor  to-day, 
laid  aside  his  stylus  forever.  Time,  after 
all,  is  but  an  impression,  easily  effaced;  the 
dead  and  the  living  are  one. 


THIS  PAPER  WAS  WRITTEN  FOR 
THE  CHICAGO  LITERARY  CLUB 
AND  WAS  READ  BEFORE  THE 
CLUB  ON  MONDAY  EVENING, 
FEBRUARY  THE  EIGHTH,  NINE- 
TEEN HUNDRED  AND  FIFTEEN. 
EDITION,  THREE  HUNDRED  AND 
EIGHTY-ONE  COPIES,  PRINTED 
FOR  THE  MEMBERS  OF  THE  CLUB, 
IN  THE  MONTH  OF  MAY,  NINE- 
TEEN   HUNDRED    AND    FIFTEEN 


.H'l'4 


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UNIVERSITY  of  CALIFORMIA 

AT 

LOS  ANGELES 

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and  villa  of 
Horace. 


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